An unexpected coda. SPOILERS for Avengers, SPOILERS ahoy.
She told Phillip true: she is no seer. But even a warrior-goddess may sense death approach one she has touched, on a rare moment.
Sif wakes tangled in her bed-sheets and knows Phillip Coulson's hour is nigh.
She might have guessed it, even without the dream. The tesseract that even Odin is loath to speak of is loose on Midgard, and its power threatens that sphere. Thor has been sent to find it, to return it to a safe confinement. Rumors of Loki fly through Asgard's halls. Though part of her is glad to hear he might have survived his fall into the void-they were children once, and fond of each other-Sif cannot but dread what mischief he might contrive with such power in his hands. Especially now, when his mischief has taken so dark a turn.
Phillip stands directly in the path of the storm, and she cannot change his fate. But perhaps she can ease his passing.
She finds Odin in his hall Valaskialf, which is itself a sign; he sits here when he must see the worlds' turning for himself, rather than relying on Heimdall's sight. Sif has won the privilege of audience without delay, as long as she does not abuse it, and so approaches the high seat of Hlidskjalf.
Odin looks tired, drained from the effort of sending Thor to Midgard. When her errand is done, Sif will find the Warriors Three and marshal them to the watch; Heimdall will sound the alarm if any is needed, but they must be ready if some enemy seeks to take advantage of Odin's fatigue.
"I crave a boon, All-Father," she says from bended knee, and waits for his word.
There are places in Asgard where even gods dislike to tread. Sif has somewhat less reluctance than most because she has visited this hall often, daring to demand battle-training from those who hear no demands but the call of their sacred duty. The Valkyrior know her and welcome her to Valhalla, and she passes among the blessed einheriar, looking for the one she seeks.
Odin has granted leave for Sif to ask a question, no more. The rest is in the hands of one she has called friend and sister, yet who stands apart and in some ways above the gods themselves.
Blonde, ever-armored Brunnhilde lounges at the front of the hall, laughing with the honored dead. She sees Sif approach and rises to greet her, already calling for more mead. "Sif! Be welcome. Have you come for battle-practice, or shall we raise havoc with a wild hunt? It has been too long!"
"I come with a question," Sif says, forthright, and Brunnhilde's countenance immediately loses its cheerful air. There are few questions to be asked of a valkyrie, and they all revolve around a single concern.
"I see," Brunnhilde says, and those attending her fall away, scattering like mice. "Ask, then."
"There is a man," Sif says, and Brunnhilde snorts and rolls her eyes.
"There is always a man!"
Upon this topic, Sif would not dare to debate. "A mortal man."
"There is," Brunnhilde says deliberately, "also no lack of mortal men. All doomed to die and I cannot interfere, you know that to be true."
"I did not come to ask for interference," Sif says, and at last Brunnhilde looks intrigued. "I came to ask for...safe passage."
Brunnhilde breathes out a low sound. "Ahhhhh. This is...a more practical approach than I might have expected," she says with a sly jab in Sif's direction, and Sif cannot deny the taunt. "So. You do not seek to fight the inevitable, which is wise. Would that more seekers come with such modest expectations. But a mortal man? They die without consideration, every moment. Surely he cannot command the attention of even the least of the Valkyrior."
"He is worthy!" Sif says, reckless, and quails before what shines from Brunnhilde's face: a power, ruthless and eternal, to which even gods must answer.
"That is mine to say," the woman before her says in a voice that is not her own.
Sif bows her head in honest contrition and no little fear. "I...humbly crave pardon, Chooser."
"Forgiven, spear-sister," Brunnhilde says in her own voice, and by her tone Sif knows she is. "But come, sit and share a horn with me, and tell me of him."
So she does. Sif sits upon the steps of Valhalla and drinks from Brunnhilde's own cup, telling her of Phillip Coulson and what she has seen of him, all she has learned.
"This is no great love," Brunnhilde says finally, thoughtfully, and Sif cannot protest otherwise. "This is a mortal you have embraced on a whim. I understand the impulse to guard those you have touched, sister, but he is yet one among millions. He is not one of ours, destined to spend eternity in this hall. And very soon..." her eyes grow dark, the aspect of her deepest nature eclipsing her face again. "Soon many will fall on Midgard."
It is war, then, and cannot help but reverberate through the worlds. Sif will soon have her own hands full with Asgard's own defenses. "I ask only that you bear witness to his passing, to see that no power...interferes."
There are worse things than death, far worse. And with what little influence she may bring to bear, Sif would not see Phillip Coulson's soul lost to the forces gathering upon his home.
Brunnhilde sits a long moment, watching her without expression, until at last she sighs. "This I may do." She smiles but slightly. "It is good to perform a simple service once or thrice upon a time, to be reminded of the value of mortal souls. I shall...take the reminder to heart, in lieu of a debt."
Sif bows her head again, both in true gratitude and surprise; their society thrives on traded favors, and few offer their talents freely when they might claim an obligation in return. For one such as Brunnhilde to employ her noble-her *sacred*-station without recompense is a gift that Sif shall not forget.
Nor shall she embarrass them both with effusive thanks. "My gratitude, Brunnhilde. When the current trouble is past, I should be glad of that hunt."
"You and I both," Brunnhilde says, and claps Sif on the shoulder, and goes to saddle her white steed.
Sif has done all she may, little though it might be. She will carry Phillip Coulson's name in her heart until the end of these worlds and the dawning of the new.
She hopes that he might hear, upon his last breath, the sound of the valkyrie's wings.
{end}
Never really intended to come back to this, but... Phillllllllll. *sobs*
...and of course, a little Gaiman-esque imagery at the last. There's also the version where Phil meets the perky goth herself, but I had an existent setup for this one.
For much (much) more, see my page at AO3. Link in my profile.